Kelly squinted at the blurry figure floating in front of her, a flute dangling lazily from her fingers. The woman's eyes—half-lidded, glinting with madness—traced Kelly's body like she was some priceless exhibit in a museum.
Kelly groaned and struggled against the slimy, writhing mass of tentacles that held her hands hostage. Her arms were stretched tight, bound like she was a piece of meat, and every tug left her feeling weaker. She'd felt this before—the soul-crushing drain, the dizzying exhaustion. Just a week ago, she had barely survived a similar attack.
And here it was again. How pathetic. How ironic.
One last tug. Nothing. She gave up, blinking dimly at the floating woman, whose face was almost beautiful—if beauty could hide the monster beneath.
That grin. It hadn't changed. It widened as if Kelly's resistance was a form of entertainment.
